I have recently decided to take this blog in a different direction and start using it to write stories. This is the first chapter of my first one.
It was just another day at work for Clara Hewson. Moving quickly and lightly from table to table in the County Line in Washington, DC, smiling her friendliest smile as she spoke to her customers ("Here is your Scotch, sir, I hope you enjoy it". "What would you like me get for you, ma'am"?), there had been nothing at all out of the ordinary happening, but then, there never was. Small in stature and slight in build, with curly red hair and blue eyes, Clara enjoyed her job and was popular with her patrons, all of whom came in so frequently that she knew them well. Except . . .
Suddenly, Clara noticed two men sitting in a small dark corner of the bar, far away from the other tables. She was curious: customers never chose to sit there, in that cramped space underneath the staircase and next to the cleaning cupboard. Only once or twice could Clara remember that table ever being used, when someone had been having a birthday party and there was not enough space elsewhere in the County Line for all their guests, and on those occasions the table had been brought out into the middle of the bar. Perhaps, Clara wondered, these men were new and didn't know how things were done here, but at any rate, she ought to go over to them and ask them what they would like to drink. As she approached the table, she also realised that though she had never seen these men in the County Line before, she had a vague sense that she had seen them somewhere. One of the men was tall, bald and broad-shouldered; the other was also tall, but thin, with spiky brown hair. The broad-shouldered man was leaning over the table towards his thin companion, looking very much in charge of the situation, while the latter was sitting a little back from the table, looking nervous. As Clara got close to them, she was able to hear what they were saying:
" . . . not sure we can manage this", said the thin man warily
"What do you mean?", demanded the broad-shouldered man. "Of course we fucking will".
"I mean", said the thin man, who seemed to be as nervous of his companion as he was about whatever they were discussing, "she keeps on our trail, doesn't she? She'll find out in the end, won't she?"
Clara's heart started beating a little faster. What were they trying to hide? Who was the woman they were talking about? Was one of them cheating on his wife? She was just three feet away from the table now, and she leaned in closer to follow the conversation.
"Stop being so fucking down about it", said the broad-shouldered man scornfully. "I'll deal with that fucking bitch, don't you worry about that. If she keeps on, and if I can't frighten her off, I'll make her sorry she ever stuck her ugly nose into our business".
He spoke the last sentence with a grim relish that alarmed Clara. Just what nasty plan could he have in store for the unknown woman?
"I hope you're . . ." began the thin man, but then he suddenly broke off: he had noticed that Clara was listening in. His companion also looked round and saw Clara. He gave her a fearsome glare.
"Fuck off you!", he shouted at her. "Ain't got fuck all to do with you, so stay out of it if you know what's good for you, ginger bitch!"
Clara was deeply upset: none of her customers had ever spoken to her like that before. Too stunned to say anything in response, she turned away in shock, still trying to digest everything that had happened. She made her way to the backroom, breathing hard.
"Anything wrong, Clara?"
Clara looked up and smiled. She saw a black woman about the same height as herself, though slightly stockier, with braided hair, looking concerned.
"Oh, nothing much, Angela", said Clara, and she explained what had just happened.
"He said that?", exclaimed Angela. "Who the hell does he think he is? And who is he, anyway, do you know?"
"No", said Clara, "I've never seen him in here before but I'm sure I've seen him somewhere, on TV possibly".
"What's this? A celebrity in the County Line?"
Another black woman, tall and slim, with long straight hair, had just entered the room. She was bursting with laughter.
Angela frowned. "It's not funny, Lily", she said sternly, but Clara smiled. She told Lily the story of the strange encounter.
"Wow!", laughed Lily, "He must be the World Swearing Champion! What a silly man! He obviously can't think of too many words to say!"
She giggled. Angela's eyes narrowed, but Clara laughed along with Lily: she was already feeling much better. She went back to her work, where she was pleased to see that the two strangers had gone, and nothing of note happened until the late afternoon. The various televisions placed across the barroom were, as always, showing CNN's rolling news coverage and, as they always did at this time of day, the announcement appeared across the screen: "Daily White House Press Briefing". The screen cut away from a story about 2000 new jobs being created in the last week to a podium at the White House. In front of the podium a gaggle of journalists had gathered, and a tall, well-built and ruggedly handsome man was striding confidently towards his position behind the podium: Tom J Crawley, President of the United States. Just as Crawley was taking up his position behind the podium, the camera cut away to two other men standing at the side of the room. Clara let out a squeal of surprise.
"That's them!"
"What are you talking about, Clara?", asked Angela, who was about five feet away.
"The men I saw earlier! They're on TV! They work for the President!"
Angela walked over to Clara and looked at the screen.
"Oh yes, you're right", she said. "The big guy is Dave Trampler, Crawley's Chief of Staff, and the thin guy is Brian Conti, his personal lawyer".
"The big guy, that Trampler guy, is the one who shouted at me. I knew I'd seen them somewhere", said Clara, in awe.
"Well, maybe the President himself will pop in one day!", quipped Lily, who had come over to see what all the fuss was about.
At the briefing, President Crawley leaned over the front of the podium, smiling broadly.
"Right," he said, in a jovial voice, "who wants the first question? Yes, you, over there".
"Mr. President", the journalist he had pointed to said, "I'm sure that we all here would like to congratulate you on the continuing success of the Back to Work programme. You are really bringing hope and joy to the American people."
"Well, thank you, but really, you shouldn't flatter me", smiled Crawley. "Any more of that, and my head will be so swollen I won't be able to stand up!"
He laughed uproariously, most of the journalists joining in, some enthusiastically, others a little more nervously. Only one of them did not.
"Next question?", inquired Crawley, once the laughter had died down.
"Mr. President", said the next journalist, "I wonder what words you have for for Richard Russell".
"The new DC Police Commissioner? Well, obviously, I'm not here to tell him what to do", replied Crawley with a mischievous grin, "but, if he really wants me to . . ."
More laughter, with again only one journalist remaining silent.
The briefing continued, with Crawley constantly laughing and cracking jokes with the journalists. The relaxed and jolly atmosphere continued for about 15 minutes, until Crawley picked out the only journalist who had not laughed at his jokes.
"Holly MacIver, Washington Post", announced a short, stout woman with short dark hair. "Mr. President, I would like once again to bring it to your attention that $100bn has seemingly vanished from the federal government's coffers. Could you please provide an explanation this time?"
She spoke politely but firmly. Dave Trampler, who had until now been observing the proceedings with satisfaction, adopted an angry expression. Brian Conti looked anxious. Crawley, however, simply laughed.
"Now, now, Holly", he said, in the voice of an indulgent parent reluctantly admonishing a naughty child, "I've told you this before, but surely, you don't really expect me to know everything about federal money, do you? Next question."
Holly attempted to follow up her question, but was talked over by the next journalist, and Crawley faced no more probing questions for the remainder of the briefing. When it was finished, Holly was just packing up when she suddenly got the feeling that there was someone standing uncomfortably close behind her. She had a good idea who it was, and sure enough, she turned around to see Trampler.
"Listen you", he growled, thrusting his face into hers, "I've fucking just about had enough of you, coming to these briefings, showing no respect to the President".
"I am simply doing my job as a reporter, Mr. Trampler", she said, unblinkingly, though inwardly trembling. "You may scare the others, but you can't scare me".
"I'm warning you, bitch", snarled Trampler, "if you keep on with this bullshit, I'll stick my fucking cock right up your fucking ass!"
"Now, now, Dave, what's all this about?", came Crawley's booming voice.
"Sir, he just . . ." began Holly
"Well you shouldn't annoy him then, should you?", said Crawley, still in his habitual light-hearted tone. "Come on, Dave, time to get back to work".
The two men walked away, Trampler throwing Holly a dirty look over his shoulder as he did so. Holly quickly finished her packing, shaken but undeterred by her experience.
In the County Line, no one was paying any attention to all this. Staff and patrons alike had quickly lost interest in the press briefing just minutes after it had begun, and in barely any time at all the bar was back to normal: loud slurping noises, increasingly bad drunken jokes, the bartenders darting around from one end of the place to the other. Clara, however, could not get out of her mind the fact that the man who had insulted her had been the President's Chief of Staff. She was glad when her shift came to an end, and she, Angela and Lily left the County Line together.
"Are you coming to the Good Time tonight, or is that a silly question?", asked Lily, smiling mischievously at Clara as the three friends stepped out on to the street.
"Do you even need to ask?", grinned Clara.
"All right, we'll see each other at nine. What about you, Angela? Break the habit of a lifetime?", inquired Lily, laughing again as though she knew what the answer would be.
"No", said Angela firmly, "There are more important things in this world".
"Muck up all the politics, I expect", quipped Lily: she and Clara both laughed, while Angela's face was stony. Clara, and, a little later, Lily broke off laughing: there was an awkward silence between the three friends.
"Well, anyway", said Clara, trying to defuse the tension, "See you tomorrow, Angela".
Clara and Angela hugged, with Angela telling her, "See you, and don't let that Trampler jerk get you down."
"I won't", Clara promised, though this was far from what she was feeling.
Clara then said her goodbyes to Lily, and the three women went their separate ways.
Clara's apartment block was located on Hunter Street, a long road that began just to the left of the County Line. It took about 15 minutes for her to walk from the County Line to her block, all the while troubled by the incident with Trampler. She supposed that she had been snooping, but surely she had not deserved such foul-mouthed abuse, and he himself had clearly been up to no good: again she wondered what it may be. She was still thinking this over when she reached the front door of her apartment block: it was at the very end of the street, and just beyond it was a narrow dark alley that nobody ever went down. Clara opened the front door and walked up one flight of steps, then turned to the right and walked past three more doors before she came to her own apartment.
Clara's apartment was a small one. There was a narrow passageway just behind the door, and straight ahead was the living room, which also served as a dining room and bedroom. About half the width the living room was taken up with the bed, which was positioned against the side wall halfway between the door and the back wall. Beyond the bed there was a sofa big enough for only one person, five feet away from a small table where a television stood. At the foot of the bed was another small table with two old creaky chairs in front of it: Clara's chest of drawers was situated against the wall just to the left of the living room door, with a mirror above it. The remainder of the walls were covered with posters of Stephen Strasburg, Bryce Harper, Daniel Murphy and other great Washington Nationals baseball players. The kitchen was on the left of the living room, and was a very cramped space, with only a narrow floor surrounded on both sides by cupboards: the sink was about three-quarters of the way on the left hand side, and the washing machine was directly opposite. The bathroom lay to the right of the living room: it too was very small, with a bath-cum-shower, a toilet and a sink, and very little room.
Clara headed straight for the kitchen and made herself a meal of noodles and baked beans, which she ate at the wooden table in the living room. When she had finished, and washed and dried the dishes, she moved across the room to sit in the sofa, took her phone out of her pocket and called her mother.
"Hi there, honey", came a rather prim voice at the other end of the line. "How are you?"
"I'm OK, Mom, but something real weird happened to me today", replied Clara, and she began to talk about her unpleasant encounter with Trampler, only for her mother to interrupt her:
"You really met the President's Chief of Staff? Holy cow! I'm so jealous!"
Clara thought for a moment about how she would respond.
"Yes, but, Mom", she said, "he wasn't very nice to me", and she explained what had happened.
"Don't be so silly, Clara," said her mother dismissively. "You shouldn't have been interfering, I'm sure that's all he was trying to say. If he really were as horrible as you say, the President would never have hired him."
Clara hastily changed the subject, and once the call was finished, she spent the evening playing on her phone. She browsed the Internet, looking at articles about emperor penguins, the Aztecs and the Solar System: she was so intrigued when she read one online article explaining that although the Sun appears yellow in the sky, it is actually coloured white, that she tweeted about it.
At about half past eight, Clara put her phone down and walked over to her chest of drawers. She looked in the mirror and sighed. Her nose was too big, her cheekbones too flat, her figure too small, her legs too short. She also remembered Trampler calling her a "ginger bitch", and gazed sadly at her carrot-coloured curls. Why couldn't she have the small nose, the high cheekbones, the tall slim figure, the long thin legs, the flowing blonde locks of the women she saw on the Internet or on TV all the time? Sighing again, she tried out various dresses, eventually settling on a lovely green one that Angela had bought her for her last birthday. After putting on lipstick and mascara, Clara took a selfie of herself in the dress, uploaded it to Instagram, and set out for the Good Time club.
The Good Time was about a 10 minute walk from Clara's house: she had to cross the street from in front of her door and then walk straight on. Lily was outside already waiting for her, and the two friends went in together. The club was a very large place: the bar ran along the length of the left hand wall, small tables filled the half or so of the floor nearest the door, and the rest comprised a dancefloor. In the far right hand corner was a DJ pumping out dance record after dance record. Clara was soon in her element, buying drinks for herself and Lily (she insisted on buying all the drinks herself), dancing and singing. Several people, including Lily, had told Clara she had a beautiful singing voice: she wasn't so sure of this herself, but she still enjoyed doing it. She also loved being on the dance floor and was a very expressive performer, twisting, spinning and jumping with equal abandon. She also spent large parts of the evening going up to complete strangers and chatting with them, and even inviting them to dance with her: she was always at ease doing this. Soon, she had quite forgotten about the encounter with Trampler: it was as though it had all been a bad dream.
At around midnight, Clara was standing next to Lily, leaning against the bar, taking a breather from a particularly intense session of dancing, when a young woman walked up to her. About a head taller than Clara, she had deep brown skin, jet black hair and large, soft brown eyes: Clara's first thought was that she was very pretty. She also had a very bold manner: she strode confidently up to Clara as though they were old friends, and she gave the impression that nothing would ever faze her - very impressive, thought Clara.
"Hello", beamed the newcomer. "I've just been watching you dancing. You were superb. I don't think I've ever seen dancing as confident, as exciting, as graceful as that".
"Well, thanks", said Clara, blushing slightly.
"I was wondering", continued the stranger, "if you would do me the honour of dancing with me".
Lily giggled, but the stranger either did not hear her or pretended not to.
"I would love to", said Clara eagerly: no one had ever asked her to dance before.
The woman held out her hand to Clara, and Clara unhesitatingly clasped it: her new friend gracefully drew Clara towards her, until their faces were just an inch apart
"Oh I'm sorry, I quite forgot to ask you your name", laughed the other.
"Oh it's all right", smiled Clara. "My name is Clara Hewson. What's yours?"
"Devi Bose", came the reply.
They began to dance, with Clara taking particular notice of how smooth and elegant Devi's moves were. As she spun, Devi's long black hair swung gracefully from side to side, drawing Clara's admiring gaze, and her brown eyes seemed to sparkle as the lights shone down on them. As the dance went on, Devi became increasingly bold, frequently complimenting Clara ("That was wonderful, Clara". "You're an amazing dancer". "You have such lovely eyes".), caressing Clara's cheeks and hair, and at one point spinning Clara around so that she ended up falling into Devi's arms.
After about an hour of dancing, they stopped, and walked hand in hand back to Lily at the bar.
"Devi", smiled Clara, "I'd like to introduce you to my friend Lily Watkins. Lily, this is Devi Bose."
"Pleased to meet you", said Devi grandly, offering her hand to Lily.
"Wow, Clara, you've scored a home run there", giggled Lily mischievously, as she shook Devi's hand. "Fancy a pretty, high-class girl actually liking you!"
"It's OK, Devi, she doesn't mean anything bad by it", explained Clara, noticing that Devi was frowning. "It's just how she is".
Devi brightened up. "Would you like another dance, Clara?", she asked.
"I'm afraid I can't", said Clara regretfully. "I need to go home now, I've got work tomorrow morning".
Devi looked slightly disappointed, but then she asked, "Would you like to go out tomorrow night, then? Just the two of us?"
"Hell yes!", replied Clara, almost shouting with joy.
"Shall we meet at the Golden Kettle, then?", suggested Devi.
Clara looked puzzled.
"You don't know where it is?" Devi sounded as though Clara had just said she didn't know what day it was.
"It's OK, I can find it on Google Maps", said Clara hastily.
"Well, that's all right then", smiled Devi. "We'll meet up at eight, shall we?"
"Fine by me", was Clara's response.
"Well, goodnight then, Clara, and see you tomorrow night". Devi leaned over and sweetly kissed Clara on the cheek.
"Goodnight", said Clara, feeling pleased, flattered and surprised. She gave Devi a tentative hug.
Clara positively skipped all the way home. What did that horrible man matter when she had just had a wonderful night out? She had a feeling of exhilaration: she had had two or three brief relationships with men before, but she had never felt about anyone the way she felt about Devi. What a wonderful woman she was! So pretty, so charming, so confident! As she climbed into her bed, her heart excitedly hammering against her chest, Clara could hardly wait for the next evening to come.
